


Moments That Define Us

by Chizwiffle



Category: The Hobbit (2012) RPF
Genre: BotFA, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 13:47:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chizwiffle/pseuds/Chizwiffle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean first met Aidan on the set of The Hobbit, he'd never expected that they'd become best mates, much less mates-with-benefits.  But whatever he may have expected, finding himself in a committed relationship with his on-screen brother proves to be more lasting than either of them realize.  But by the time they do realize what they have, it might be too late to save it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moments That Define Us

**Author's Note:**

> I have to give the biggest shout-out to lenore_writing for all of her help in this piece. Not only was it her suggestion that transformed this into an actual story, but it was her help that transformed this from a one-shot into a three-part story. She's helped me to understand Dean and she has been indispensable in writing Dean and making sure that he's as realistic as possible.  
> Also, to S1ncer1ty, your faith in me and your belief that I can write has given me the opportunity to write this fic. Without you I would not even be writing in this fandom.
> 
> And of course, standard disclaimer, these are real people, so I do not claim to know any parts of their lives or claim that any of this is true.

The shaft of lightning streaking through the gap in the curtains pierces straight through Dean’s eyelids, forcing the Kiwi to squeeze his eyes shut and roll over in bed, hoping to escape.  Rain pelts the roof, beating against the window until a distant rumble of thunder arrives, still loud enough to rattle the flat.  The cast had spent the night painting the town red and he knows no matter what that it’s far too early to be awake.  Snaking his arm through the covers, he peeks his eyes open in surprise when the other side of the bed comes up empty.  He can still feel the residual heat from Aidan’s body and his fingers splay against the sheets as he pushes himself upright, bracing back on his left hand, the right coming up to rub once over his face.

“Aid?”

Squinting until blue eyes adjust to the dim, early morning light, Dean silently stares around the bedroom of his trailer– the pale, grey-blue walls trimmed in white, the telly in the corner, clothes thrown haphazardly over the leather chair near the window – gaze finally coming to rest on his cast mate, half-hidden by the curtains he’s parted just enough to stare out the window.  Aidan hasn’t turned from the window and the black zip-up hoodie he wears, one hand tucked into the pocket, a few dark curls poking out from beneath the hood, keeps most of his face hidden.  Dark eyes peer silently out towards the cars on the streets, and the five o’clock shadow on his chin that he somehow manages to keep just the right length each day of filming has grown just that much more overnight.  Dean can’t really see more than that though, what with Aidan’s forehead pressed against the windowpane as it is.  He yawns and brushes a hand over his face again, trying to push the developing headache – the always-so-lovely reminder of last nights – back.

“Aid, s’too early.  Come back to bed.”  Flopping back down, Dean lets his eyes close, taking a few, deep breaths.  But the silence that follows, punctuated only by the rain, has him peeking one eye open again, focusing on the slight hunch in the taller man’s shoulders, following the muscled planes of his back down to the well-fitted, low-rise jeans…-and the hand that easily dangles a bottle of Epic Armageddon IPA between three fingers.  Brain finally catching up at the sight, Dean props up on one elbow, glances at the clock – _8:46_ – and frowns at Aidan.  “You alright, mate?”

“Lashing out there, isn’t it?”

Leave it to good old New Zealand weather to pick the perfect day to storm.  He supposes he should have expected it, considering the look on Aidan’s face.  The black-haired actor’s moods always seemed to reflect the weather.  No, no that isn’t true.  Sometimes Dean swears that the weathermen can use Aidan to chart their forecasts is more like it.  Aidan’s moods can change as quickly as the weather, constantly keeping Dean on his toes.  Sighing, Dean lets his head fall back against the pillows once more before resigning himself to getting up, dragging on a pair of jeans to ward off the chill of getting out of bed.  Coming to stand at Aidan’s side, Dean pushes the curtains aside with two fingers, getting his first good look at “New Zealand when it doesn’t want your plans to work out,” his other hand slipping to rest easily in the dip at the small of Aidan’s back.

“So much for that tiki tour you were going to get today.”

Aidan finally pulls his forehead from the glass and draws the bottle to his lips, taking a long, slow sip as Dean watches, though his dark eyes remained locked on the window.  They’d been filming scenes for the Battle of the Five Armies for the past week, and despite the work they’d been doing the past seventeen months, these last scenes seem particularly grueling.  Not that PJ would ever make them work over the weekends, but the cast still relish the break nonetheless.  He and Aidan hadn’t gotten back to the flat until nearly 2:00 that morning.  And now here they were at 8 –he glanced at the clock again –:52, staring at the rain and Aidan has decided he isn’t finished drinking.

“Alright, Aid, seriously.  What is it?”

“What, we go out on a tear and a bloke can’t have a pint the next morning?”  Those lips quirk up just a hint at the corner and Dean can see the flicker of amusement in Aidan’s eyes. Sometimes he wonders if Aidan even realizes that his default look is playful bordering on downright mischievous.

“What? No, that’s not-” Dean shakes his head and reaches for the bottle, taking a quick swig of his own.  It’s far too early and he’s far too hung over for… _this_.  Whatever ‘this’ is.  “I don’t even want to know how you have the energy for this,” he mumbles, ostensibly to himself, but no doubt Aidan has heard, if the smirk on the taller man’s face is anything to go by.  He points the bottle at the other actor.  “We  just spent all night out, we get back and finish the night christening that bed for the 956 th time-” he plucks the number out of thin air, bottle waving as he does so, “-and don’t get to sleep until nearly 4.”  He takes another swig before pointing the bottle at Aidan again, “I have no idea how you’re not completely knackered, _and_ I know that look.”

Aidan’s smile falls and saves his beer from Dean before the Kiwi can finish it off, sighing and pushing back from the window after tapping his palm against it twice.  Dean never understood why Aidan had to touch, to fiddle, his fingers always moving, but he would never change it.  That movement, that _energy_ constantly bubbles beneath the surface of tanned skin.  He can see it in the ripple of muscle under his fingers when he lies propped up on one elbow, head braced on his palm, doing nothing more than tracing patterns across the other actor’s chest as they lie in the after-glow some nights.  Even then those slender fingers he loves so much will be moving: if not against his skin then messing with the sheets, making small triangles out of the fabric. 

Dean follows with his eyes as Aidan perches at the end of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, the bottle clasped in both hands.  And when he ducks his head, black curls hide dark eyes from Dean’s sight.

_“Would ye shut yer gob an' listen to yerself?” Jimmy cut in during one of Dean's more colorful rants about something else Aidan had done on set.  Aidan had already disappeared back to his trailer, but he and Jimmy had finished in prosthetics at about the same time, so the two walked side by side towards the trailers.  With one hand in his pocket, Jimmy held the other out, palm up.  “Ye fancy ‘im.  So do somethin’ about it.”_

_At the time, Dean had been too shocked to say anything, but their other token Irishman hadn’t found it strange at all.  Then again, Jimmy took pride in uttering shocking statements and didn’t seem to have a sense of shame either.  Considering the only other bloke from Ireland he really knows is Aidan who tends to do the same, Dean is certain that this shamelessness is a national trait.  He hadn’t known what to say and stuttered something out, glad they were by that time in front of his trailer.  But Jimmy stopped him one more time with a hand on his shoulder, and the fact that he didn’t look about to pull a prank actually had Dean pausing to listen.  “If'n ye do,” he paused, thinking carefully over his words and looking towards Aidan’s trailer, brows furrowing slightly, “make sure ye take care o' him, yea?”_

_He’d left Dean so confused by the last comment (and the first, for that matter) that it kept him occupied for nearly two weeks after that conversation.  Jimmy hadn’t said it as though Dean_ wouldn’t _take care, hadn’t even said it as though Aidan seriously needed looking after._

Even now, fourteen months later, he doesn’t think he knows exactly what Jimmy meant that day, but he’s starting, just starting, to understand.

 “What 'appens next, Dean?”  Dean doesn’t like the long, slow breath that Aidan takes before the words, the way his shoulders fall when he exhales.

“I’m…not sure I follow.”

“I know ye follow.  Ye’ve got to be thinkin' it too.”  Aidan, instead of lifting his head, seems to look further down to the floor between his feet, but the bottle starts slowly spinning between his fingers, the movement pausing only when the other actor begins picking at the label.  “What 'appens next?  What 'appens to _us_ after all this?”

Dean frowns, wishing he could see the other man’s face; the black hood pushing down black curls make Aidan seem further away than he has in a long time, despite sitting right in front of him.  He has a feeling he knows where Aidan was going with this, but he isn’t sure he can face it himself.  Because he doesn’t have the answers any more than Aidan does.  He knows these final scenes they’re filming aren’t the easiest, knows that for all the ‘growing up’ they do throughout the films, that these scenes are meant to be the hardest, and he can’t help but wonder if this is what’s sparked his on-screen brother’s current mood.  A small _rip_ catches his attention and he watches a piece of the label float to the floor.  Dean closes his eyes and pushes his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

It’s unsettling, to be sure.  Even with his eyes closed he can hear Aidan’s busy fingers at work on the label, can hear it when the younger man takes a slightly deeper breath and lets it out just as quickly. 

 _He’s intensity; he’s every perfect note of every favorite song that you can’t help but feel, refusing to let you float your way through life.  He’s the fast rush of firsts – first kiss, first time, first love, first fight – all  rolled up into one disgustingly attractive body of full-lit smiles and unrestrained passion_. _He’s the part of you grabbing your life by the reins and sending you careening from one emotion to another.  He’s intensity.  He’s feeling.  And he’s forcing you to feel_ everything _._

The ripping stops and Dean’s brows knit together at the silence, a silence he hates, a silence that has him opening his eyes quickly just to counter it, only to find Aidan’s brown eyes looking up to him, searching.

Bugger it all; the last thing he needs right now is to be reminded of Aidan’s on-screen character, of the mockery of Kili’s bangs that the curls pushed down by the hood are making.  Because no actor is chosen for how far from themselves they can be for a role; they always bring something of themselves, no matter what.  And he doesn’t need to see Kili in Aidan right now, not when he’s sitting so still.  Part of him hates how PJ decided to end the line of Durin, hates that he let Kili die first, hates that the scene has to be absolutely perfect which means take after take after take but Aidan’s already perfect and _for fuck’s sake_ how could watching Kili die ever be _perfect_?  It’s not that he can’t handle it; it’s acting, just acting. 

And it’s not that it’s so realistic, because it is, it’s _Aidan_.  It’s not the look of confused shock on his face when the first fake blade catches him in the stomach, or even the second that slashes across his back and sends him arching upwards in pain; it’s not even as he slowly sinks to the ground, and he’s gasping in ragged breaths with fake, minty flavored blood spreading across his armor and dribbling from lips parted in silent pain, and Thorin – god, poor Richard – has to watch from his final resting place skewered by spears as his younger sister-son falls, that gets to Dean.  It’s not even when he’s crawled to Aidan’s side, when he manages to whisper those last few lines to Aidan and some of the fake blood he has coming out of his mouth splatters onto the other man’s face, and Aidan…Kili, fuck, is looking at him with eyes suddenly too old and too young all at once, that gets to him.  It’s the stillness.  It’s when Kili dies, dies with Fili’s tears on his face and he’s gone so completely still, that gets to Dean. 

Because he’s never once seen Aidan frozen, in any way.  He knows it was somewhere around take three that he realized it, that his gaze behind Fili’s eyes fell to Aidan’s hand, palm up and motionless that the tears choked off.  Because Dean knows that the pain he felt then wasn’t acting, and he knows that whatever PJ saw in that moment was exactly what he wanted, because they haven’t shot from that angle since.

It’s hard enough when they’re working; he doesn’t want to bring that home.  But the lack of sleep and the residual heat of alcohol in the pit of his stomach from last night aren’t helping.

“Deano?”

Aidan’s been watching him this entire time, so before the silence passes into worry, Dean sighs and sinks down to sit on his heels, squatting in front of Aidan with his elbows on his thighs.  He doesn’t know how to answer, only finds a dark irony in the fact that their on-screen characters don’t ever have to worry about this problem; how apropos.  That last caustic thought makes him rub his hand rather aggressively over his face to clear his thoughts and wake up again.

“Nothing’s going to change, Aid.  We won’t let that happen.”

Aidan’s studying him for a few seconds after that, lips almost turned down into a frown, as though he’s not sure he likes Dean’s answer.  But he pushes up from the bed almost a moment later, unable to sit still for too long.  Pacing to the window, the dark-haired actor stares out into the rain, scratching the pads of his fingers through the stubble on his jaw.  Dean still remembers the day months ago that Peter took Aidan aside after one take on set and the only direction he gave was to stop scratching.  Dean hasn’t seen him do it in costume since.  Rising from the floor, he takes the spot Aidan had just been sitting in, watching the younger actor pace bare-foot across the room.

“I hate thinkin' about it.  I hate thinkin' that after this…” he waves a hand as though to catch his thoughts out of the air, “-after all this, it’s over.”

_He’s here.  He’s your right here, right now.  He’s the whirlwind of each present moment that keeps you from ever looking back or looking ahead, because if you do, you’ll miss something important, something special, and you don’t ever want to miss a single moment that’s his._

_Except every moment is his._

Dean would get up, but he knows Aidan will be moving again before he even gets close, so he stays put, watching Aidan take another sip.

“And what?  You think I’ll just shoot through the moment we’re done filming?  Is that it?” 

“What? Fuck. No.  Dean, no, I don’t think that.”

“Then what is it?”  Dean never thought Aidan ever had problems getting his words out, so he doesn’t know what to make of this.  “What’s got you on like this?” 

Aidan paces to the telly, pauses, shakes his head and turns back to the window, drumming three fingers against the bottle in his hand.  He swills it, downs the rest, then sets the empty bottle on the windowsill.

“Nothin', mate.  It’s nothin'.  Let’s just go back to bed, yea?”

Oh bugger it all.  Again.  Dean finds it hard enough to keep up with Aidan when he’s not knackered and sporting a headache large enough to make thinking hurt. 

_He’s volatility.  He’s your candlelight lover shoving his embers into you and you know that no amount of life-top tip-toeing will keep the sparks from igniting, because he’s the heartbeat that fans the flames he gave you to begin with._

A warm, muscled body breaks his thoughts and he refocuses to see Aidan’s chest inches from his face.  The younger actor straddles Dean’s thighs, legs settling on either side of his waist.  Slender fingers cup his jaw and he touches his forehead to Dean’s, black curls tickling his skin.  It seems almost ridiculous to Dean how easily his hands settle on Aidan’s hips to keep him in place and he tips his head back just enough to brush a kiss over Aidan’s lips,  catching Aidan’s gaze just in time to see his eyes dance  for the split second that lightning lights up the room.  Aidan’s tongue slides across his bottom lip - the way it always does right before Aidan's about to kiss him - and Dean, as always, can’t help but be drawn to the action.

_He's an addiction, an addiction of the worst kind, the sweetly intoxicating fire that slow burns through your veins until you don't even realize the addiction until you're just that: well and truly addicted._

 “Heya, bed, yea?”

Dean finally reaches up and tugs that damned hood down, black curls springing free to frame Aidan’s face and that damnable smirk quirking those lips up.  Instead of returning his hand to Aidan’s hip, he grips the back of the taller man’s neck, buries his fingers in those curls and crashes their lips together, reveling in the low groan that emanates from the back of Aidan’s throat.  Aidan rocks his hips forward into his, but the hand Dean has on his hip, around the back of his neck keeps his Dubliner firmly caught against him.  Aidan uses his position to press Dean’s back down into the sheets, and the _Being Human_ actor has one hand braced next to Dean’s head, their lips still locked.  Dean is pulling the zipper of Aidan’s hoodie down, shoving the fabric off the other man’s shoulders so Aidan has to hold himself up, folded over Dean in order to pull it from his arms and toss it somewhere with their other clothes scattered across the floor all without breaking the kiss.  When they finally separate to breathe, Dean lets his head fall back into the duvet and Aidan’s lips are dragging down his jaw, breath hot on his skin.  Lips and tongue lave at a slowly reddening spot on his neck and Dean groans, bucks his hips up into Aidan’s which earns him a moan that vibrates against his neck.

_Sometimes you want to possess him, because he has already possessed you with an obsession that's deep-seated in your bones now.  There might have been a time you could still shake him off, but he's old-world Ireland; so firmly rooted in you that you want to know when he built his castle around you and locked himself into the dungeons of your heart.  You want to know where the fuck he’s put the key so you can destroy it, keep him forever locked away in you._

Aidan pulls back from his skin and Dean takes the opportunity to grip the bottom of his white v-neck t-shirt and tug upwards, wanting it off right now.  Never mind that v-neck t-shirts make Aidan look completely sinful in Dean’s book, he wants it off, and he forces Aidan to pull back just long enough so he can tug the t-shirt over his head.  It joins the pile on the floor and now Dean can enjoy the glorious slide of skin on skin, even as their hips build up a steady rhythm that keeps the pleasure singing through his veins.  He allows himself a moment to take Aidan in, curls falling forwards into his face, arms braced on both sides of Dean’s torso, the muscles of his chest flexing as he gyrates his hips down against Dean’s in a display so sinfully wanton, the low-rise of his black jeans scarcely baring the hem of his black boxer-briefs.  The sight, coupled with the delicious friction of another thrust of their hips has Dean’s head falling back as he groans out Aidan’s name.

Aidan pauses, pulls away, and the sudden loss of friction, pleasure, and heat leave Dean momentarily reeling, so that by the time he props up on his elbows, Aidan’s already made it to the window, one arm crossed over his chest, hand covering his mouth.  Dean doesn’t know where the thought comes from, but the room seems too small all of a sudden to keep the younger actor in.

“Aidan, what-“

“Fuck it, Dean.  Fuck it all.  Who the fuck are we kidding?  There’s less than a month left o' filmin' an' when it’s done, everythin' will change.  It doesn't matter what we do, we still only have one fuckin' month.”

Dean, still lying as he is on the bed, closes his eyes and tries to block out those words.  Of all the conversations to have when he’s knackered, running on far too little sleep, and now, thanks to Aidan, completely aroused.  He finds himself taking a deep breath, in the hopes that it will quell the annoyance welling in his chest.  Because _fuck_.

“So what do you expect me to do, pull another month out of thin air?”

The words come unbidden, but once they’re out, he doesn’t attempt to take them back.  They feel good, and by god, Aidan and his wonderful sense of timing need to hear them.  He doesn’t open his eyes, feels more than sees Aidan whirl around to face him from wherever in the room he is.  The younger man sighs; there’s a rustle of something that he can’t discern.

"Fuck, Dean.  At least admit to it.  We've got one fuckin' month an' how the hell can it be anythin' but done?"

Dean doesn’t know why, but Aidan’s incredible pessimism in that moment has that annoyance welling back up again in his chest and he finds himself gripping onto the sheets to keep himself calm, deliberately keeping his eyes closed this time as he caustically remarks, “Nice to know your future plans. Could have let me know sooner that you plan to pike off the moment filming is done.  It might have escaped you but I didn't regard this as a one-year fling."

And really, he didn’t.  In fact, none of this had originally been meant as anything more than a one- _night_ fling, mates with benefits that they could enjoy while they were filming.  Because fourteen blokes on a set would never last the eighteen months to the end of filming.  Aidan had not only been free, but he’d been his best mate from the beginning, and for the past year it’s been just that.

And more, far more.

"An' ye think I did?  Jesus, in case ye forgot, before ye I didn't even know I was remotely into blokes.  I don't want this to end either, but how the hell is it goin' to work?  Ye'll go back to shooting Almighty Johnsons, who the fuck knows what I'll be doin', but ye can bet whatever work I get won't be here."

He should have known that Aidan would decide to talk about these things at the most unfavorable times.  All the things he’s always hated about relationships, all the strings attached the taller man is bringing up in one, disgustingly inopportune moment.  And in this moment he just wants the conversation to end.

"Ever heard of phones? And that thought didn't occur to you until now? We're actors. This is what we do. It's shit but its life."

He’s surprised Aidan isn’t used to having relationships long distance really.  Sometimes he prefers them, prefers being able to just call and talk at the end of a particularly long day, but for the other 24 hours, the burden of keeping someone else occupied and happy are blissfully removed. 

"Jesus Christ, Dean.  Phone's can only work for so long.  Ye think I want to think about this shite?  I've tried not to for months and ye haven't exactly made it easy not to."

Dean finally opens his eyes, stares at the ceiling and forces himself upright, bracing on his hands so he can finally look at the other man standing before him.  Aidan’s moved to the window by now, arms crossed over his chest because he’s always so bloody cold.  Dean doesn’t know why he won’t just move away from the window if he’s so bloody cold, but he pushes the thought aside, knowing it’s the lack of sleep, the alcohol, the headache talking.  He tries, he tries very hard to bite his tongue, but Aidan won’t let this go.

"So now it's my fault? Alright, so what do you want me to say? Do you want me to apologize?"

"No I don't want ye to fuckin' apologize, we're not in school.  Fuck it all.  Could ye at least act like ye care? We're not talkin' about a bloody drive through Wellington."

"What are we talking about, Aidan? You knew what you signed up for when we started this. I'm a Kiwi. You live at the other end of the world. If you cannot deal with that-"

No.  He doesn’t want to go there.  He wants to _sleep_ ; he wants to not think about this, because they’ve done a hell of a good job not thinking about this for the past 14 months.  It’s 9:00 in the bloody morning and he should be asleep for another four hours, should be waking up with Aidan warm and asleep next to him.  Not this, whatever _this_ is.  Whatever _this_ is about to become.

Aidan's jaw clenches over whatever he'd been about to shout back to Dean’s words, but the slight movement as he pushes black curls out of his eyes draws Dean’s attention.

 "Funny that ye did think of it and it still didn't stop ye from gettin' into my bed for a ride.  What was that about not plannin' on this being a one-year fling?  What, is that too long for ye, then?"

_He's always been real, frighteningly real. He's been your answer to how to live. And you know you've been his. Sometimes you wish there was a reset button on life._ _Because sometimes you want to take it all back, go back to before you kissed him there in the candlelight._

_But the greater part of you knows you'll never give up the memories of loving him, no matter how rightly wrong it is._

Honestly?  For what he’d originally planned, yes, it’s rather long.  Would he give it up? No.  They’d been monogamous for nearly a year, they’d spent Christmas with each other’s families, they’d been an item on set.  Was any of it planned? No.  Did Dean care normally?  Not really.  Right now he cared, because bollocks if he didn’t just want to _sleep_.

"Do you really want to go down that route? Because in that case we might as well admit that we should never have let it come this far. We should have nipped whatever the hell came over us in the bud. Is that what you want to hear? Because quite frankly I do not understand what else you want me to say."

"For fuck's sake, Dean.  What do _ye_ want to say?  Enough with this shite about what I want ye to say.  That's a cop and you know it.”  Aidan has too much energy this early in the morning, on this little sleep.  He’s pacing all over the room and just _watching_ him is making Dean exhausted.  Aidan is not someone you can handle without all of your senses, without every weapon in your proverbial arsenal.  Fili has 9 to deal with Kili.  Dean has three and all three are currently missing in action until a more appropriate hour.  Aidan doesn’t seem to understand this, because he keeps going.  Because apparently the younger actor _does_ want to go down this route.  “Is that what ye want to say, then?  That it was all a fuckin' mistake an' it should never have happened?  Should 'ave been one ride an' then forget it?  Is that what ye want?"

Dean doesn’t know how he’s managed to handle it all these months.  Aidan is everything all at once, wrapped into one bloody gorgeous package of Irishman, but too much for right now. 

 _You’re not innocent anymore. And neither is he. You’ve both tasted the cup of Cupid’s mortality and now both of you want to hold onto the other as you drown in your own sins. But you keep yourself just out of reach, build a cathedral dedicated to him around your heart and never let him in to hear confession. Because maybe if you let go, if you let him go, he’ll float away, float back to the top where he’s always belonged._  
  
 _Because he’s always had the Midas touch._  
 _And all you’ve given him is your Judas kiss._    
  
 _But your incendiary boy just sets his timer, pushing all his flammability into you as you try to bomb-boogie your way through the no-man’s land that has become your life. Because being in love is deceptively easy, it’s just a cakewalk through the park when no one sees the mines hidden underneath the swing set._

"What I want to say? I want you to calm the hell down and act like the fucking adult you're supposed to be. Actually," and Dean finally moves.  He gets off the bed, searching for his shirt which he seemed to have lost somewhere between the door and the bed sometime last night, "I've had enough of this shit."

 _Or maybe it’s_  his  _sin that you want to drown in._  

What normally might work for Dean becomes infinitely more difficult when Aidan is already standing in front of the door, has been standing in front of the door for the past few minutes.  He still has no shirt on and his arms remain crossed over his chest, partly to ward off the chill.  "I am calm, O'Gorman.  Don't fuckin' pull the age card with me."

_Maybe if you are sweeter you’ll be enough for him. You know now – now he wouldn’t want you. Now you’re just bitter, untouchable in all the places you’ve been touched: a time capsule with a broken seal that’s been shoved back into the ground for another 50 years now that all your memory-secrets have been tasted._

"Aidan, let me through." Apparently that is too much to ask for, as the blighter won't budge. "Fine." He grabs Aidan by the shoulders, knowing his fingers will leave marks where they dig into the skin and muscle of the taller man’s arms and finally wrestles his way to the door and outside of the room. "I've had enough of your shit. I don't know what the hell crawled up your arse and I don't care. But this... this is not working." He turned around, then turned back. "Don't come after me. I expect you to be gone come midnight."

 _So spin around on your merry-go-round; because the wheels keep turning and turning and the world is twirling and twirling and you’ve forgotten just how to keep your feet on the ground. You’ve spent too long with your feet in the air and your head in the clouds, trying to deny everything you haven’t found without him, trying to deny what can never go away. And now he's calling you out on your game._  

He doesn’t stop to look at Aidan; closes the door to the bedroom before his on-screen brother can attempt to use that bloody gorgeous voice and his gift of words to draw him back in.  He doesn’t want to see whatever emotion is written easily across Aidan’s all-too-expressive face; because sometimes it’s stifling, living constantly one step behind someone who owns the world and doesn’t realize it. 

 _You close your eyes to try and see the world, cover your ears to try and hear. You know you'll never be able to sing if you don't open your mouth. Life is just one big palindrome for you, and you can 'live evil' or you can live not at all. Because somewhere in your life the unseen breeds the obscene._  Live evil _, but it's just a_ veil _because you're_ vile _. Don't think you're_ vile _because it's just a_ veil _. Which way does your palindrome go, baby? Which way are you going to go?_  

So he turns on his heel, snatches up his blazer and keys, slips on his shoes, and with a slam of the door, finds himself standing in the deluge, staring down the street as rain immediately soaks him to the bone.  And bloody hell if the chill doesn’t feel _good_.


End file.
